


Night Moves

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows Sam hates Christmas, with or without his soul. So he's not really expecting any presents from his brother this year. </p><p>Featuring Bob Seger and a trip to McDonald's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Moves

**Author's Note:**

> Already published [here](http://helllfiresam.tumblr.com/post/135361598980/christmas-was-never-sams-favorite-holiday-before). 
> 
> Happy holidays, y'all.

Christmas was never Sam’s favorite holiday before he’d lost his soul. The memories of Dad leaving them behind in motel room after motel room with nothing but a bucket of KFC and a ten-dollar gift card to the nearest Circuit City—if he’d remembered to give them a gift at all. Dean never understood Sam’s aversion to Christmas but he learned to leave it well enough alone after that horrific year before he’d gone to Hell; for a while now Christmas has been an avoided subject between them, something other people do with their lives. The year Dean stayed with Lisa and Ben, he’d celebrated it because they were, and because it was the societal norm to spend his hard-earned money on gifts for people he barely knew, but it had felt stiff and awkward after so many years out of practice.

Now, even without a soul, Sam still hates it. _Commercialism,_ he’d said, disgust crawling evident through his voice as he’d stared at the television in their last motel room. _Fucking consumers roaming the stores looking for the biggest waste of cash possible to say “I care” when they really don’t. At all. Just kinda stamp your wife’s name on the package and get the once-a-year ‘I love you’ out of the way. Throw the toys in the kids’ faces so they’ll shut the fuck up about whatever for five seconds._

He’s more bitter about it now, more cynical, but the hatred is still there. And still baffling to Dean. Though he supposes he really couldn’t ask for Sam, without his soul, to celebrate a family-oriented holiday with him. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire and all that. Dean thinks he’d be more likely to get Crowley to choke down hundred-proof eggnog with him at this point. 

Which is why it comes as a complete shock to him on Christmas morning—a strict ‘no hunts unless it is absolutely necessary’ day, something Dean established for himself when he started hunting alone—to find Sam sitting with a half-heartedly wrapped present in his lap. That odd animal emptiness in his eyes, though when he sees Dean’s awake he tilts his mouth into a smile so close to genuine Dean can’t really tell if it isn’t. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says, and moves to the side of the bed. 

Dean’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Wha-huh,” he says, intelligently.

Sam sighs. Presses the present into Dean’s hands. “I got this for you,” he says, in that odd ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing because it involves emotions’ voice he always gets whenever—well, whenever emotions are involved. He’s good at hiding it in public, or at least he’s decent at it, but he doesn’t care about trying anymore, with Dean. Thinks Dean’s knowledge of Sam’s soullessness is supposed to make him more open to Sam’s quirks. Whatever they might be.

Dean doesn’t really know what to do with the fact that he’s sort of used to it, at this point. 

He says, “Um,” and, “Thanks…?” and then, after a moment of hesitation: “I thought you hated Christmas, Sam.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, well.” He makes an expansive gesture outward with his hands, broad shoulders lifting and falling. “You don’t.”

Dean squints at Sam, suddenly suspicious. “Did Samuel put you up to this?” he asks. 

“Oh for fuck’s—no, Dean. Jesus. He didn’t. I just bought the damn present on my own. Would you fucking open it, or do I have to take it back.” He’s glaring, but not at Dean. All that intense otherworldly focus directed at the floor—carpets singeing and burning all the way down—and Dean swallows. Feeling weirdly guilty, he puts his hand on Sam’s arm. Ignores the way Sam goes totally still and silent under his touch.

“No, I. I’ll open it,” he says, quiet. Keeps his hand on Sam’s skin for a fraction of a second longer before tugging the newspaper off the present. Lifting it to the light.

It’s a cassette. Bob Seger. 

“You’re always complaining about how upset you are that _Night Moves_ got ripped apart by that black dog three months ago,” Sam mumbles, still staring at his hands. “It’s fucking annoying listening to you bitch about the same shit every time we get in the car together. Especially since _Night Moves_ isn’t even that good an album.”

“Hey!” Dean yelps, affronted, though he’s staring at the cassette. Shocked beyond reason that Sam— _Sam!_ —would have bought this for him. Something so small and. And thoughtful. 

Sam kind of smirks, half his mouth showing, slow coil of movement that does things to Dean’s insides. “Title track’s pretty good,” he grunts, “but the rest of the album’s about as forgettable as Seger wishes he wasn’t.”

They end up wrestling on the floor about it. Cassette left on the mattress, and Dean’s pinned under Sam before he realizes, the back of his shirt all rucked up, carpet burn scratching his skin. Sam’s huge hands closed hard and hot around his wrists. 

“I spent a dollar ninety-nine on a piece of shit cassette for you in a bargain bin,” Sam says, with his knee digging into Dean’s thigh. “Admit it.”

“I hate you,” Dean growls, glaring. At his brother, who is so much Sam and not Sam, all at once. Who may never get his soul back. Who bought him an album he doesn’t even like just to shut Dean up. Who bought him an album for a holiday he can’t stand. 

“Seger is shit,” Sam says. His heart is pounding so hard against Dean’s that Dean can feel it through both of their shirts. 

“No,” Dean says, and then he kisses him. 

He wasn’t planning on doing it; they’ve fucked around a few times since they’ve been back together, but never anything serious, and not really at all since they found out that Sam’s lacking his most essential parts. But he’s missed it, missed this, and Sam’s mouth was right there, rose-red and bitten and _inviting,_ and he’s warm and solid and he smells like Sam and he bought Dean a cassette for Christmas and Dean has no idea what to do with any of that. So he kisses him, and immediately Sam’s hands leave his wrists, come up to cradle his jaw. Pressing him down harder into the carpet and shifting his hips against Dean’s, slow purposeful drag of movement that has Dean hard in seconds. 

Sam pulls away a little, says, “So you like the present, I’m guessing,” in this soft vaguely amused voice. Not exactly malicious. 

Dean rolls his eyes. Shoves until Sam gets off, and then he sits up, Sam following. Scrubs his fingers through his hair. 

“I didn’t get you anything,” he says, and then glances down. Feeling like something small is crawling over his fingers, but no, it’s just Sam’s hand. Resting lightly on top of Dean’s. Dean can’t even tell if Sam is aware that he’s doing it, rubbing his thumb against Dean’s knuckles, his fingertips drifting lightly over Dean’s. He’s staring at the wall again, and there’s a faint pained expression on his face. 

“You’re good,” he says, almost too quiet for Dean to hear. 

Later, they wind up going to McDonald’s for dinner. Sam steals Dean’s fries and Dean, charitably, lets him get away with it, even lets him double-dip in the ketchup they’re sharing. 

“Merry Christmas,” Dean says with a grin, as Sam slides the last fry into his mouth. 

Sam snorts. Kicks at Dean under the table. Goes down on him in the backseat of the Impala ten minutes later, ‘Night Moves’ playing on the stereo, the new cassette clicking and whirring.

It’s one of the best Christmases Dean thinks he’s ever had.


End file.
